


Light Me Up, Burn Me Down

by maximumtrash



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous use of italics, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Sub Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Webcam/Video Chat Sex, i needed to tackle the maid dress situation, please look away mom, sorry for all the cursing, this is filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29974236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximumtrash/pseuds/maximumtrash
Summary: Chat was right. The silence was loud.Horribly, embarrassingly loud.George’s voice cuts through his small, isolated corner of peace. "Yeah, Dream, why are you so quiet?"Or: George gets a maid dress just for Dream.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 456





	Light Me Up, Burn Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> in the span of 16 hours i finished watching the alt streams from today, turned in my last final, and speedran this piece of garbage in one sitting. please, take it from me.

Chat was right. The silence was loud.

Horribly, embarrassingly loud.

Dream ignores the blood pounding in his ears and groans internally when the dress gets brought up yet again, keeping his lips firmly pressed together.

George’s voice cuts through his small, isolated corner of peace. "Yeah, Dream, why _are_ you so quiet?"

_Don't fucking say anything,_ he thinks. _Think of anything else. Food. Editing the rest of the video. How cute Patches was earlier when she was chattering at birds outside the living room window._

“I don’t think he likes the idea, chat. It’s a no from both of us.”

It’s most definitely not a no, Dream almost says, but he saves himself at the last second and lets the moment pass. George goes back to spewing something else to the chat, and Dream eventually finds his voice long enough to call him annoying, like he always does, but he'll never admit what he really means when he says that is, _you’re so endearing._

George’s stream ends not long after, and Dream thinks he’s actually gotten away unscathed again. What is this, the third time chat’s tried getting George to agree to the maid dress? Dream’s never given his opinion, but he nearly did the first time it was ever mentioned.

The idea honestly hadn’t crossed his mind until that point. Sure, the costumes were becoming increasingly popular in the community, but he didn’t ever focus on them, and didn’t really see the appeal.

Then George had read a cursed dono out loud about wearing one of the dresses for a sub goal, and Dream opened his mouth to crack a joke about it, but his brain suddenly produced an awfully enticing image of George, his best friend, in skimpy black and white fabric, ruffles puffing up and brushing against his porcelain skin, and his cock gave an interested twitch.

Dream proceeded to choke on his own spit.

Seriously, he had to mute his mic. 

It’s haunted him ever since, appearing in his mind before he falls asleep, searing his eyelids as he’s rinsing out his shampoo in the shower, lurking in his peripheral when he’s trying to pay attention to one of the boys’ streams.

It’s unrelenting. He shouldn’t find it attractive. He _shouldn’t_. Not because it’s George—well, to be fair, that too—but because it’s stupid. It’s just a costume. Dream knows George is gorgeous, he tells him so himself. And he knows the way they talk to each other isn’t quite as friendly as they’d like to think.

But Dream hasn’t crossed certain boundaries—hasn’t ever taken himself in hand and gotten off to the thought of him.

He avoids that at all costs. Side-steps abrupt thoughts of George’s voice when he pumps himself to completion in the delicate hours of the early morning, makes sure he only allows the image of petal-soft lips wrapping around him to slink around in his head long after his climax settles.

Dream doesn’t mess up. He knows the rules, and the last few years, George somehow slipped into the off-limits area of that part of his life. Best friends? Sure. Joking about fucking him when they happen to wake up at the same time? No problem, just bros being bros. But genuinely wanting to suck his dick then cuddle him afterwards because he’s pretty sure he’s in love with the guy? 

That’s his deepest, gayest secret of all time. 

And the damn maid dress, of all fucking things, is what trips him up.

Dream strides from his bathroom back over to his bed, tries to escape the suffocating steam that built up during the lengthy shower he took after the end of the stream. He dons nothing but sweats then turns to pick up his phone from where it waits for him on his sheets.

An unread iMessage notification from George prowls at the top of his screen.

It reads, _maid dress though?? ;]_

Dream’s heart lurches in a pathetic _thump._ He only just found relief from earlier.

He taps out, _don't even start_.

Three dots appear, and George sends him a dumb kissy face emoji in response. Dream tosses his phone back onto his bed, and takes a deep breath. He tries to block out the idea of soft thighs and a pretty, flushed face holding down a too-short skirt, but it’s futile.

Desire stirs in his gut, and a rush of heat rolls over his clean skin. Dream inhales slowly, interlacing his fingers behind his head. He can’t jerk off. He will not jerk off. He won’t. He’s made it this far.

That’s the thing, though. He’s so, so close to giving in.

Dream huffs, forcing his legs to take him out of his room and into the kitchen. He’s not that hungry, but he’s antsy enough that he could demolish a few meals in one sitting right now, and when he wrenches open his fridge and catches sight of a jar of pickles, Dream decides he’s in the mood to annoy Sapnap as well. He woke Dream up too early the other day, so he’ll get payback by eating the whole jar of the little shits.

God, he’s the pinnacle of a healthy, young male.

For a while, those texts seem to be the last of the situation. For the most part. 

As the days go by, Dream scrolls past a couple hundred tweets mentioning the maid dress (he swears he didn’t look up the term plus George’s name in the Twitter search bar. Crosses his heart), and tries to get the crappy edited photos of George out of his head. 

He doesn’t _need_ to see him in it. He doesn’t know why he _wants_ to see him in it so bad. He and George are _friends._ Friends shouldn’t want to see their friends in embarrassing costumes the way Dream imagines George in a thin little outfit that hugs him in all the right places—

Dream presses the heels of his palms to his eyes until he sees stars. _Fuck. Okay, no. Bad thoughts. Begone, demons._

Friends should just want to tease their friends about stuff like that, not eat them up with their eyes.

Jesus Christ. Dream leans back in his chair, away from his monitors. It's been days, and he can't get the picture out of his mind. He's supposed to be concentrating on editing one of his new videos. He's not supposed to be obsessing over this.

A discord voice call rings through his headphones, startling him. Dream blinks his eyes open, stares at the red and green symbols on his screen.

George’s icon glares back at him.

_Not now,_ he thinks. Not when there’s leftover warmth pooling in his belly and sweat prickling at his temples. He’s so pent-up, so wired lately, he’s barely been sleeping for God’s sake. He glances at the time and sees it’s way later than he thought it was. Fuck, he’s really losing it.

But it’s George, so Dream leans forward and clicks the green button, smiles on instinct, and he’s immediately greeted by, “ _Dream_.”

George says it with a lilt, like he’s up to no good. 

Dream steadies himself and says, “What’s up?”

“What are you doing right now?”

It strikes Dream as a bit weird—too formal. Suspicious. “Editing. Why?”

There’s a pause. A long, frightening pause that allows Dream to hear the way George’s microphone picks up the barest indication of the boy taking a deep breath.

“I had an idea,” George says, and it’s low and careful in a way that brushes against Dream’s frayed nerves. 

“That’s never a good sign, George.”

“Oh, shut up,” George says, a grin wrapping around the words. Then, back with that control, “I spent a while thinking about this. Honestly.”

Dream’s lips tug upward. Okay, he’ll bite. “Thinking about what?”

Then his screen shifts, because George turns his camera on.

And the sight of him hits Dream with the force of a thousand suns. 

Before him, George stands back in front of his bed, clad in a dainty dress that exposes his thin, pretty thighs. It poofs at the shoulders, cinches at the tops of his arms, leaves the rest of him bare down to his slender wrists. 

All of Dream’s breath leaves his body. _Fuck. Fucking fuck._

George tugs at the hem of the skirt, has the nerve to look shy after the bomb he just detonated in Dream’s chest. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively sweet. “Thought you'd want to see it, _Mr. Silence_."

It takes Dream a good few moments to catch up to what his words mean. He can’t stop drinking in the sight of him. 

_Silence?_

George continues. "Wondered why you wouldn't say anything when it got brought up." He twists slightly, staring down at himself, then up at his image in the monitor. He turns to the side, and Dream feels saliva collect in his mouth at the way the fabric falls on George’s backside. "I mean, I feel absolutely ridiculous, but I thought it'd be worth it to see your reaction."

Dream doesn’t answer. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He feels alive with molten gold, blood rushing south almost painfully fast. A dreadful ache he hasn’t felt in ages flares in his bones, one that makes him want to sink his teeth into the unmarked expanse of the throat on his screen, wrap his arms around the small waist on display and never, ever let go. 

He wants George so much, in every way, but he’s across the world.

Dream lets that go for now, refocusing instead on the cursed outfit George wears apparently just for him.

A new, hot kick of lust hits him. He's so fucking hard. He hasn't reacted like this since he first discovered porn when he was a damn teenager. He has to resist the overwhelming urge to shove his hand into his shorts and give himself some relief.

George crosses his arms over his chest and Dream’s glitching brain quickly sorts through the possible meanings behind the action. Insecurity? No, not likely. Impatience? That’s more probable. 

“Still have nothing to say?” George all but purrs.

And _oh,_ Dream’s tongue stumbles over itself in his hurry to answer. “You’re so fucking perfect, George.”

George beams, a pink tint to his cheeks, and Dream suddenly notes just how fluffy his hair’s gotten now that he’s been growing it out. His chest throbs with something buttery soft.

“You like it?” George asks, relaxing his arms and running a finger across the lace at his collar.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dream grits. His cock pushes against the confines of his sweatpants, and he balls his hands into fists on top of his desk. He can’t even comprehend what’s happening, he’s just—

George’s head tilts to the side, and a lovely calm settles over his features. “Why don’t you show me how much you like it, yeah?"

Dream’s next breath stutters out of him, and the air grows thicker in his room. He wants Dream to—

"I don’t—uh. What?" 

“You know what.”

Jesus, that voice. “You mean, like, touch myself?” The words slip out slurred and eager, make him feel like a fool. His nails bite into his palms, and his shirt’s wet beneath his arms. He’s so very aware of the way his skin feels like it’s vibrating, and he barely has a single brain cell left to ask himself, _How the hell did we get here?_ before George laughs, and it’s oh so tender and fond and a little bit condescending, a mixture only he could create. 

It makes Dream flush down his chest, makes his ears burn.

"Yeah," says George, and he faces the camera, pops his hip out like the world’s most flirtatious model of the contrapposto pose. "You wanted to see so bad, I might as well get something in return instead of you stealing pictures to blackmail me at a later date like I know you’ll do. So, here it is in all its glory." He gestures vaguely at himself, and Dream’s gaze locks where the skirt pulls higher on his creamy thigh. Holy shit, he wants to put his mouth there. "So, what're you gonna do, Dream?"

The edge to George’s voice causes Dream’s eyelids to droop, fogs up his mind more, casting the night in velvety clouds. In an infinitesimal moment, Dream realizes he’s lived years close to George, each second of their time together more intense than the last, and these past months it’s as if he’s doused himself in gasoline. Finally, he decides to give George the match, trusting him to set him ablaze.

Without thinking, he whispers, “I’m gonna touch myself.”

He cringes at how awkward that sounded, but then he sees how George’s eyes flash like he’s won a delicious prize. Again, distantly, a part of Dream screams at how fast they’re running down this jagged path, but then it feels so natural that he can’t be bothered to focus on it. Perhaps they’ve both been teetering on this ledge for years.

“Good,” George says, shifting a step closer to his camera, allowing Dream to see the dress in more detail. “You have lube?”

“Yeah?”

“Get it. I want to hear what your hands sound like on your cock.”

Holy fucking shit. The words zip down Dream’s spine like lightning. He scrambles from his chair, nearly knocking into the corner of his desk as he tries to navigate his room without taking his eyes off his screen, but he reaches his nightstand and rumbles around for the bottle he keeps there, then returns at the speed of fucking light. 

He waits, throbbing in his chair, an instinct ordering him to sit still. George has to tell him what to do next. All the while, George seems the definition of poised except for the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His lips part, close, then open again. 

“Turn your camera on.”

That showers Dream in ice, tension lodging in his throat. 

“You know I don’t like—”

“I know,” George interrupts. “You don’t like cameras. But you’ve got one.” He smirks, then, and his voice slips back into that steady hum, roping around Dream and settling him into a sleepy haze he can’t quite comprehend. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to show your face—just point it down at your lap.” He drops his next words into a whisper. “I want to see you do it.”

Dream’s breath hitches, groin aching. 

For once, he doesn’t allow himself to overthink it. His hand moves to his mouse, taps shaky clicks on his screen, and then his own face appears on the monitor. Briefly, he notices it’s George’s turn to catch his breath. He only allows it to linger for a moment, that image of him all flushed and hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, before he reaches and points the camera down like George ordered.

A flood of saccharine shame comes over him. He looks kind of pathetic, he thinks, cock straining in his sweats while his worn, white shirt drapes across his waistband. 

Waiting to jerk off for the camera. For George.

He closes out of his image, lets his gaze return to George, and the rest seems to float away. He sees the heat in George’s dark eyes, sees the shine on his skin, the way his stare burns into a certain section of his own computer screen—right where Dream’s video shows up, he knows.

“Push up your shirt,” George says, quiet. 

Dream’s fingers twitch to obey, but he hesitates. He’d rather just get on with it than bare himself so much for the screen. 

“George—”

“You’re not in charge here. I am.” It’s firm, but light—doesn’t allow room for argument, and it licks up Dream’s chest, wraps fiery tendrils around his neck. He watches George’s hands dance at the hem of his skirt, shift it up, up, higher to the top of his thigh, so close, then stop. It makes Dream’s heart pound so fast he doesn’t notice he’s moving until his fingers have tugged the loose fabric of his shirt up past his ribs, and he bites the bottom between his teeth before reaching for the lube, uncapping it and squirting an obscene amount into his palm. 

He doesn’t bother to warm it up, doesn’t want to feel embarrassed, doesn’t want to _think_ anymore. He slips his hand beneath his waistband and wraps it around his cock, nearly groaning at the pressure, and he hears George’s sharp intake of breath more than sees it.

“Go on,” George says, gravelly, and as he slides his fingers up over that stupid fucking amazing outfit, Dream pumps his hand up and down his length, fighting to keep his hips in place. It feels electric, the slippery glide of his palm quickly drenching his skin, the feel of George’s eyes on him, the relief of touching himself after so long avoiding it.

And he finally gets to watch George as he does it. Think of George, stare at him in real time, soak him right up. It has his toes curling in his socks in seconds, grip faltering on himself, free hand coming down to hook a thumb beneath both his sweats and boxers and push the bands to the top of his thighs, freeing himself for George to see.

“Scoot forward and spread your legs, Dream.” He does, slowing his pace as he shifts to the edge of his chair, leaning farther back. He thinks he should feel stupid spread out like this, knowing someone’s watching him, but instead he feels desperate and more turned on than he can ever remember being. George looks at him, right at him like he’s starving, twisting his fingers in his skirt, and Dream wants to touch him so goddamn bad, wants to grab his wrists and pin them above his head, wants to press their lips together and leave crimson brands across his body. 

“Faster, baby. C’mon.” The nickname swirls in Dream’s ears, sounds like heaven to him, and George pulls his skirt up, revealing lovely lace panties that match the black trim at the waist of the dress. Dream can’t help the moan he lets out, fist squelching around his cock. 

“You wanna see me, Dream?” George says, stepping closer to the camera so his face disappears from view. Dream doesn’t have time to lament because George’s palm comes up to brush over the front of the panties, and _fuck._

Dream will never admit it, but he whines.

“Is this why you were always so quiet when chat asked about me in a dress? Fucking naughty, aren’t you? You just wanted to see me in it alone, all by yourself.” Dream’s thoughts drift away, and he’s left only with sensation as he twists his hand over the head of his cock and watches George’s fingers dip beneath the lace, wrenching a gasp from himself. 

Christ, Dream wants to hear him do that again and again. His abdomen coils, spread thighs flexing as his hips twitch up on each downward stroke. The excess lube creates such a filthy sound and he knows his mic picks it up, knows George can hear each time his breath hitches. 

“How did you think of me, Dream?” George coaxes, hand squeezing himself then slipping back up to his waist. “Did you picture my mouth on your cock?”

_I wanted to, wanted to so bad._

And then he’s backing away toward his bed and turning all the way around, lifting his skirt up and bending over, propping himself up on the edge of his mattress. The lace panties stick to him like sin, and Dream wants to tear them off with his teeth, replace their touch with his tongue. “Did you think of bending me over like this?”

_Yes, yes, yes_ —

His hand’s so fucking wet, and Dream can only imagine what it’d be like to stuff his cock between George’s milky thighs, into his tight hole.

Gravity seems to increase, pressing down on Dream’s shoulders, and then his whole body seizes as he comes harder than he has in months, nearly biting through his shirt. He spills over his belly, and when his eyes close at the intensity, the visual of George presenting himself to Dream in black panties blazes in the dark.

When he comes back down, George is in his chair, head lolled sideways, hands out of view and moving fast below his waist. Dream barely has a moment to feel another surge of heat before George tenses, jaw falling slack, and he blinks his eyes open.

Then Dream realizes he’s probably staring at the pools of come on Dream’s torso and his softening cock, and he rapidly pulls up his sweats and reaches to turn off the camera, blood beating in his head. He slumps back in his chair, gross and sticky, and he stares at George yet again, who’s still getting his breaths under control.

“Holy fucking shit,” Dream blurts. 

George laughs, softly at first, then it builds, the sound full of life. Dream can’t help but laugh too. 

“That was…”

“Good,” George says. 

_Yeah,_ Dream thinks. _And a long time coming_. He feels exhausted down to his marrow, and so satisfied he doesn’t try to fight the goofy smile that spreads on his face. 

“You were right about the silence,” Dream admits.

George rolls his neck to the side, sinks a bit lower in his chair, bashful. “I know.” _Where did all of that control go from a minute ago, Georgie?_

“I think—”

“I don’t want to talk about anything until I come to visit you,” George cuts in. 

“Okay,” Dream says. “I was just gonna say I think things would have been a little different if you had been here.”

“Just now?”

“Yeah, or earlier at some point.” 

George hums. “How so?”

Dream runs his clean hand across his face, still relishing in the afterglow of what they’d just done, what they’d finally just done _together_. “Exactly who’s in control would be something up for debate, I guess.”

The way their relationship has taken so many steps forward in such a short amount of time is going to baffle Dream—later, though, when he has the energy to overanalyze every little bit of this moment. For now, he’s just ecstatic at how instinctive it feels with George, how it’s not awkward, at least, not yet. It feels _good_ to have shared more with each other, and it puts Dream at ease to know George had wanted him, too.

On the screen, eyes hooded and cheeks still rosy in a way that has Dream’s pulse singing with contentment, George smirks.

"We'll see."

**Author's Note:**

> hang out with me on [tumblr](https://toartemis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
